


where the black sand meets the raging seas

by Pixeled



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Ancient magic, Buddhism, Cetran Iconography, Character Study, Gen, Healing Magic, Leviathan - Freeform, Living A Lie, Religion, The Lifestream (Compilation of FFVII), Wutai, inherent magic, monk!Tseng, the Cetra, the nature of man, true self
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:42:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27449578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixeled/pseuds/Pixeled
Summary: “All gifts have a price, Tseng. I myself know that and paid my price long after knowing it would happen. And so did you. You almost died for me. And Tseng?” She took his hands in hers. “Thank you. I’m sorry I was a brat a lot, and hated you for so long, but then I knew who you really were, not just what you represented. I think you must have forgiven me, considering my upbringing. Those are different things. And nuance takes a bit, especially for a young girl, Cetra or not. But I got it. And you did so much to protect me. Go. Live. I’ll be there for you. I’ll protect you now.”
Relationships: Aerith Gainsborough & Tseng
Comments: 5
Kudos: 3





	where the black sand meets the raging seas

**Author's Note:**

> To Kalandra’s “Borders” which I’ve been listening to for 2 weeks on repeat thinking about this story, and I finally sat down and wrote the damn thing.

Tseng slowly lifted his head. He was lying on black sand, on scattered smooth rocks of various deep blacks and brilliant whites, as if tumbled in the ocean over eons only to be spat back on the shore. Was he in the ocean? There was a vague memory in his mind of floating. Floating and floating and floating and being gently moved as if in the embrace of the gods. Only it had been cold. So cold. Did the ocean spit him back on the shore? Did he fall asleep in the cold embrace of the heavens?

He slowly got to his feet and looked down at himself as if for the very first time. He was wearing a torn white yukata and it twisted in the wind though it was soaked. The whole thing clung to him. He was cold. He was so cold he could feel it in his bones. He looked at his hands. They trembled—his body quaked, and so he turned.

What he saw was beautiful and overwhelming. The mountains of Wutai were extensive, ran in jagged white-gray lines like the pulse of a human heart and stretched before him like the vast wings of a dragon so big and fierce that its power was unfathomable. And why would he liken it to a dragon? To a pulse?

Because he could feel the rumble beneath his bare feet. He could feel it in arms, which he stretched out slowly, and it ached like an aged god within his rib cage. The thrum was like a dark and mystifying secret as old as Gaia herself.

And then he felt the churn of the ocean growing louder and louder in his ears.

It was like Gaia, the mountains, and the ocean all spoke to him, filled him, and though it could have stopped at the borders of his being, it flowed out of him and swelled around him, making his beating heart sear inside his chest. It was so loud, and yet it was timed perfectly to the sounds around him that grew louder until his head was full. At first it was the sound of the mountains and the ocean and the sands shifting, but then he could hear a jumble of voices. So many voices. There was an urgency and a swell but he could understand nothing.

There was a cave to his right, rough-hewn and perfect in that way that all ancient things are. He felt that ancient power coming from it, a power that compelled him so firmly, so beautifully he almost could not resist, and the voices seemed to swell more when he looked at it, but he needed to get warm first.

He trudged into the woods in his soaking yukata and dragged wood back and forth to the edge of the black sand, just before the ocean. When he had collected enough he cupped his hands together and a white flame slowly emerged from his trembling hands that grew larger like the swell of the mountains and the ocean. He poured it on the wood like it was water, and a slow growing fire began from within the pile and spread outward.

He sat cross-legged next to it, reaching his hands out to warm them, like the first man must have done when the first flames were born from Ifrit. And like those first men, he wore fascination like a man enthralled. The fire crackled and the wood warped and snapped out of shape and shrunk slowly, and when he had dried a bit and was warm again he stood, looking at how the fire threw smoke up into the dying light like tendrils. He had saved a piece to use as a torch. He could start to make out stars. The sun waned on the horizon, clasping like a lover to Gaia, and it was as if Gaia replied “we will meet again soon”, and he knew it to be true. He lit the wood and held it aloft, naked feet traversing smooth sand and hard rock toward his singular destination.

As he entered the cave, the light from the torch threw the cast of shadows everywhere and he could not focus at first, but then he saw. The voices swelled. Gentle. So gentle. Like a mother goading its child forward. And so he moved forward. There were ancient words and ancient drawings lining the walls. He touched the wall and it was hot and pulsing. He took his hand away, but it was only born of surprise, for he did not expect it, but when he put his hand there again all the drawings and writings began to slowly light up like white hot fire, only the wall did not change in warmth. It _did_ pulse more. And that pulse went from the wall to his hand into his arm and into his ribcage and heart, and suddenly the words of the voices became singular but manifold, layered with intricacy and still gentle. So gentle.

“ _Child of man, we come to you. We come to you because you have a piece of our power hidden inside you and you have learned to harness a tiny portion of it. Behold, vestiges of our past, when our people lived on the borders of safety.When greed and war did not taint our hearts. In you, you have waged war on others by helping to harness the power of the souls of the Lifestream where some of us reside still to ferry the souls of the lost, but you have also waged war on yourself. You have spent many years after the end of that terrible time questioning your every action, your every misstep and act of malice._

_“But in you is a great force. And that is why you are here. You started here, in this very land, a babe with a gift no one could understand, born to those who feared it. And so you walked a terrible path and you were forced to suppress it._

_“But now you are free. Now you are free to wield your power. She would have wanted you to. She guided your hand here. You protected her with your lifeblood. You came here at her behest. She sings songs of ungrateful souls, but she puts you amongst those who she knew to be more than what they were. She counts you, and two others, one of them now lost to the waking world, but seen by those who know where to look for him. You can see her too, if you look for her. She cannot just appear to you. You have to let her into your heart._

_“When she met you, she says she felt the touch of a Cetra, and you, unknowing, caused her terrible fear and a strange pulse of familiarity too. She wanted you to find out who you really are. But it cannot simply be told, for power is mysterious and grows as seeds to saplings to trees._

_“You are magic._

_“You are the power of life._

_“You hold the gift inside you to make life from death and soothe the wounds of man._

_“You chose instead to wield the power of death. But it was not by fault of your own. Men are greedy and want for everything. They weaponize everything they find. They make war out of peace. They force the hand of those who would do good—instill hatred into the hearts of the pure._

_“You were pure, and then fear made them cast you out rather than nurture your gifts._

_“Now your heart is broken. But it can be made whole. Open yourself up. Let her in.”_

The glow around Tseng dissipated.

He stood there a long time. When he touched the wall again, it was cool to the touch, as if the Cetra had fled. He walked slowly out of the cave, torch casting light in the fledgling darkness. The fire he had made was still going by the end of the ocean, though the line of the water was creeping closer. He walked up to it, laid the torch down into it, and watched it brighten from within like a many-faceted crystal, then he laid down by it, dry now, warm now, and slowly, slowly drifted off to sleep cradled in the words of the Ancients, in the ebb and flow of Mother Gaia and in the twinkling and promising stars.

For most of his life Tseng pretended he was not a religious man. He pretended he was a hardened man who believed in nothing and wanted for nothing. It was easier that way, to take a nihilistic stance so that he could navigate the treachery of his path, but he knew who he was, what he believed in, what he wanted and _that—_ that, no one could know. He pretended his race was something no one could see, like an illusion. But that was not true either, and he knew that. All of his actions were met with scrutiny simply because he was Wutain. And because he was Wutain he knew that all souls were individual and also one. When one person’s soul fled their body they became part of a collective that ebbed and flowed. Death was traded for new life. It was not a Wutain notion. Not really. It was simply truth.

But religion was scarce on Mother Gaia and the monks of Wutai told stories about the many religions of the world, the manifold beliefs in gods, in temples and churches built in their honor, and how they were no more. There were ancient tomes, hand drawn and written in brilliant inks and golds that detailed all the religions. But now? Now religion was laughed at. A dream of old. It was seen to be as ancient as Wutai, and as silly as its beliefs in staying a separate land, far away from the clutches of ShinRa. Why did they not acquiesce to the might of an army that could squash them even if they did not have a prized SOLDIER?

At first there were peace talks. Their leader, Godo Kisaragi, met with Sephiroth, the General of ShinRa’s army. As a peace offering Godo gave Sephiroth the legendary sword Masamune, a fickle odachi, six feet in length, which was said to choose its owners. There was a kinship between the two. But when those talks came to nothing and Godo refused to budge, war bloomed and that ancient sword that was so very Wutain was used to kill so many of Godo’s men.

Wutai held onto tradition at a time when no one believed in tradition.

Until it was beaten down, its spirit firmly shackled to its losses, and their leader became a depressed man, a shell of his former battle-hardened self.

But now it was strong again. Partly due to his young but steadfast daughter, partly because everyone who survived became as one, as it was always supposed to be. One man alone has but little strength, but the whole of a nation has all the strength of a blazing heart, beating as one.

And ShinRa was no more.

In Wutai there were statues erected many hundreds of years ago in the honor of the great twisting and roiling all-powerful Leviathan, the goddess who presided over the seas and could be as terrible and capricious as the sea herself.

Some of the statues still stood.

Many were destroyed in the war.

Still more were destroyed in the Tsunami that followed the war.

Wutai had suffered much, but it still stood.

Tseng dreamt of the half-destroyed Church in Sector 5 of what was once the Midgar slums, which stood in ruins itself. He hadn’t visited it after Aerith died. Perhaps it had been too painful a thing to conceive. There was no pain now. And now, when he dreamt of it, he was walking in, barefoot, in a freshly pressed white yukata. The sun streamed through like soft linear planes and touched the flowers that grew there. He felt the sun hit his face like a lover kissing his brow. At the end of the flowerbed Aerith was tending to the flowers. When she looked up she smiled brilliantly, her green eyes lighting up from within, twinkling almost. Her eyes did the same when she was about to do something mischievous, and Tseng had seen that look often when Aerith had finally opened up to him.

“Long time no see,” she said.

“It has been quite a while, indeed,” Tseng answered.

“Come help me!” Aerith said, and so he moved around the flowerbed to kneel by her side. “Here,” she said, taking Tseng’s hand. “You see this one? It’s dying.” She moved Tseng’s hand and put it directly over the withered flower. “Now concentrate on what you want to do.”

Tseng looked at her.

“Go on,” she smirked.

Tseng closed his eyes and heat radiated in his palm. When he opened his eyes he watched the flower go from withering to full, plump, and full of beautiful life, glowing slightly. When the glow faded the flower remained as it was—alive again, as if death had never touched it. His palm tingled a bit, but then it dissipated.

“That’s the trick of it!” Aerith smiled. “You did it! Now, you need to know, if you do this _for_ _someone_ , someone who is _dying_ , it will consume so much of your energy that you will become one with the Lifestream. It’s all about a balance of energy. But that person will remain, and they will be healthy. All gifts have a price, Tseng. I myself know that and paid my price long after knowing it would happen. And so did you. You almost died for me. And Tseng?” She took his hands in hers. “Thank you. I’m sorry I was a brat a lot, and hated you for so long, but then I knew who you _really_ were, not just what you _represented_. I think you must have forgiven me, considering my upbringing. Those are different things. And nuance takes a bit, especially for a young girl, Cetra or not. But I got it. And you did so much to protect me. Go. Live. I’ll be there for you. I’ll protect _you_ now.”

Tseng woke up with a start to the ground rumbling hard. He scrambled to his feet. The fire had gone out and it was now the early hours of morning when the stars had not yet fully dissipated but the sun was slowly encroaching across the sky in a languid trail. He ran to the ocean, the waves hitting him with a raging force that should not have been. The waters were calm last night.

And then he saw it. Or rather—her.

A long spine, sinuous fins that lengthened like almost translucent sparkling folds of a gown that caused chaotic waves, and a long piercing cry as a head emerged, a maw opening to greet the morning. The stones on the black sand jumped on the ground and Tseng almost lost his footing.

And as quickly as he saw the goddess, she retreated back into the ocean, but the waves remained, like the ghost of godhood.

The ground stopped shaking and he turned.

All over the sand were messages and pictures that reminded him of the cave. He bent to touch one, and like catching fire, they all lit up one by one.

“ _Do what you were meant to do,_ ” came the manifold voices. And when he stood all of the messages disappeared. Instead of wiping away in the sand, the sand kicked up like little explosions before settling back down.

Tseng cleaned up his mess and walked back into the heart of Wutai.

And from that day on he became a monk. He could have married. He could have had children. But he remained celibate so that he could be as close to enlightenment as possible, and people came from all over to see him, because he could heal afflictions and he could imbue salves with potent magic.

Alone, in the temple, he sat cross-legged most evenings, tight bun on the top of his head neat still, the sash across his chest just as neat, byakugo tingling faintly with power as he prayed.

He made pilgrimages to visit Midgar to make sure the flowers still thrived in Aerith’s Church. And if they didn’t, he brought the withered flowers back to life.

But he always returned to Wutai. Where he was born. The birthplace that was stripped from him. The heritage and religion he could never claim.

He wasn’t living a lie anymore.

He healed. And in the process, he healed himself and found peace.


End file.
